MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 211 MAY 2016

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

NUMBER 211
MAY 2016
Copyright 2016 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

  1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
    1001. It’s your moment in the sun–and you’ll get burned.
    1002. You act as if there’s no tomorrow–and there isn’t.
    1003. You’ll stake your life on it–and you’ll lose that bet.
    1004. They’ll lock up the key–and throw you away.
    1005. You are a gold mine of information–Fool’s Gold.
    1006. You can’t put your finger on it–They broke them all.
    1007. You can’t win them all–but you can lose them all.
    1008. It’s too late to keep a civil tongue in YOUR head.
    1009. They’ll roll out a red carpet–soaked in your blood.
    1010. Two heads are better than one, except in your satchel.
    1011. Very soon you’ll literally be tickled to death.
    1012. The cat’s got your tongue–and very soon, the rest of you.
    1013. A chip on your shoulder–a monkey on your back.
    1014. Your American Dream is now three hots and a cot.
    1015. They have crossed out your name in the family Bible.
    1016. You are old and in the way–but not for long.
    1017. You have nothing to lose–you are already half dead.
    1018. If you weren’t perpetually angry you’d feel nothing at all.
    1019. It’s a long way to be happy–you haven’t even started.
    1020. The suspense isn’t the only thing that’s killing you.
    1021. You will be killed on the very day the conflict ends.
    1022. They won’t even put pennies on your cold dead eyes.
    1023. Very few know your pain and fewer still would even care.
    1024. They’ll arrest you from stealing pennies from a public fountain.
    1025. The policeman decides he must seriously chastise you.
    1026. Your body is willing, but your mind is in the way.
    1027. She’s a two-timing tramp; you’re the last one to know.
    1028. Even in the quietest moments they are plotting your downfall.
    1029. They will stick a fork in you until you’re completely done.
    1030. Poker face? Not for long. They’re warming up a hot poker.
    1031. You are anything but family friendly.
    1032. You proudly bear the flag of hectic mania.
    1033. Your enemy is everywhere at once, for it is anyone.
    1034. You brag about yourself as though you matter. You don’t.
    1035. You have yet to realize the world is cold and harsh.
    1036. You’re curiously blind to the duplicity of your “benefactors”.
    1037. You are a hopeless dust mite swept up in The Process.
    1038. Your comforting illusions will be serially destroyed.
    1039. Excuses? The Big Boss has no time for excuses.
    1040. It won’t do any good, but pray. Pray as hard as you can.
    1041. You’re like fat-free cream–thick, but not rich.
    1042. Your low motives are exceeded by your nonexistent morals.
    1043. You may worship God–but He doesn’t much like you.
    1044. You got it backwards–the Boss asks the questions. You listen.
    1045. The old folks say that you were Born to Hang.
    1046. The odds have already beaten you–a long time ago.
    1047. The Universe teems with life which plots your demise.
    1048. Normal people wish you’d get out of their way.
    1049. You have a real knack for making people nervous.
    1050. People like you only survive by pretending to be stupid.
    1051. Idiots have loud voices–yours is the loudest of all.
    1052. It’s you against the world; you’re punching above your weight.
    1053. The Wheel of Life is ready to crush you flat.
    1054. The Devil says he’s a big fan of your recent work.
    1055. You’re too dumb to grift and too weak for the Heavy Rackets.
    1056. Where is Riddle? Who is Ransom? The world may never know.
    1057. You’re down to nothing… and you deserve even less.
    1058. Everywhere you go you spread a contagious psychosis.
    1059. You’re a hit and run victim–only you ran over yourself.
    1060. You will become an unsuccessful beggar in a Mexican border town.
    1061. Comeback? First minute of Round One your chin will kiss the mat.
    1062. Your friends are wild animals who will devour you. Run!
    1063. Even the mosquitoes are repelled by your funky aroma.
    1064. You’re guilty as hell. It’s written all over your face. Literally.
    1065. You’ve been blacklisted, Chump. Better light out for the Territory.
    1066. No medicine will cure the bite of that two-timing dame.
    1067. All your High School friends know where you are–in jail.
    1068. Do nothing, be nothing, and get it over with.
    1069. You are well known for throwing gasoline onto fires. Literally.
    1070. You will find neither Fame nor Fortune, but Famine.
    1071. You love the spotlight because you fear your own shadow.
    1072. Secretary? Lookee–no touchee. She belongs to the Big Man.
    1073. Jealousy, greed and lust–and those are your good qualities.
    1074. Inspiring your every action is a dead man’s soul.
    1075. You will drown in a river of your own tears.
    1076. You’ll go to sleep dreaming and wake up screaming.
    1077. Stay, Go–All the same. Nothing matters. No way out.
    1078. You’ll only find yourself at the moment of your death.
    1079. You have thrown your life into a soundless well.
    1080. You are an animal. And you know what they do to animals.
    1081. You weren’t made for these times–or for any others.
    1082. Your mind’s an empty vessel on a dying sea.
    1083. Stop your blubbering, Lard–they will have absolutely no mercy.
    1084. She thought you were a man–you are only a boy.
    1085. It’s no wonder you love money, for you have none.
    1086. You will deeply offend a man who has frightening tattoos.
    1087. Even the Devil doesn’t want a soul like yours.
    1088. You’re not a man for all seasons but for all treasons.
    1089. Some animals actually live quite well–until the axe falls.
    1090. Only one man could exonerate you–and you killed him.
    1091. You don’t give a damn–and now you are damned.
    1092. You live in the House of Murder–rent is overdue.
    1093. Everyone knows that all of your motives are wicked.
    1094. You’ll live on canned spaghetti and Muscatel in a welfare hotel.
    1095. Not one of your grandiose schemes will ever bear fruit.
    1096. She’ll treat you to dinner then announce she’s dumping you.
    1097. You think you’re insanely talented. You got the first part right.
    1098. Love’s hard to come by; hatred’s two for a penny.
    1099. Nobody’ll look you in the eye–not even the one good one.
    1100. It’s your life. Dive in. There’s no bottom.

2.DOGS TURN ON YOU

You know how sometimes dogs, they turn on you? My dog turned on me. He started smoking a pipe, growing an ironic beard, and shopping at Trader Joe’s.

I had to put him down.

So I said to him,”You’re nothing but a goddamn hipster!”

  1. I HEART LEVIATHAN
    I love leviathan. It’s so fun to watch leviathans fighting it out. The
    best leviathans are those with leviathan coaches and a leviathan work
    ethic. I enjoy watching leviathan. Good hits and good defense. There’s
    nothing better than watching leviathan. A hard-hitting contest of
    leviathans. It’s such a pleasure to watch leviathan. Two leviathans
    marching up the field. It’s even better leviathan when the two
    leviathans are really leviathans. The leviathans in the booth always
    do a good job of describing leviathans.
  2. TERRORISM: THE PEOPLE SPEAK

    THINKS COMPLAINTS IGNORED
    I personally find it appalling that in spite of all the legitimate and
    well-reasoned comments that people have made regarding killing
    all the terrorists, some people still persist in
    referring to it as “murder.”–Mr. Reuben Baneberry

    SHOOT THEM
    Since TERRORISTS want so badly to kill someone I say we kill them.
    –Mr. Andrew Jellywhopper

    FRIENDS OF TERRORISTS
    I am one proud American
    who supported President Bush and not President Hussein. And I say people who cry
    about the Bill of Rights are the best friends the Terrorists ever had.
    –Mr.Andrew Xavier

    PROPAGANDA FOR TERRORISTS
    Regarding the bill of so-called rights, I expect to see
    this kind of crummy terrorist propaganda in Al Jazeera, not in your
    otherwise fine paper. What’s got into you? I dare you to print this.
    —Mr. Brian Redshaw

    DESERVE TO ROT
    Terrorists who think they can frighten me? These are the
    sorts of people whose souls deserve to rot in hell forever. –Mr. Carl
    Hardliver

    WILL WRITE TO DC
    Surprised there are no laws to stop
    terrorism. Intend to write to Washington to see if
    something can be done.—Miss Connie Welkin

    WHY THE FUSS?
    I am frankly surprised at
    all the vehemence directed at terrorists. Although, one the
    one hand, I abhor violence, I still fail to see what all the
    fuss is about.–Mr. David Quitten

    SEND THEM TO RED CHINA
    Maybe our government should offer
    these terrorist creeps a one-way ticket to Red China. I wonder how
    long they would put up with them there. –Mrs. D. D.Evans

    NO PAKI SUBSIDY
    Who in Pakistan or India or Towelheadistan is paying you to print such
    rot, and how much? I hope for your sake you are raking in lots of
    Rupees, heathens, for I will no longer pay good American money to
    bring pro-terrorist propaganda into my home. Cancel my subscription at
    once.–Mrs. Hazel Gabble

    NIX ON TOMMYROT
    I say bad enough that on the radio
    instead of soft music they play the Communistic jungle music by greasy
    big-lipped Zigaboos morning noon and night, but when they start
    talking up terrorist tommyrot in the newspapers, I want to know why.
    I WILL KILL THEM ALL.–Mr. Jeffrey Feist

    READY TO HELP
    The dirty beatnicks who support drugs and terrorism ought to be hanged
    then drawn and quartered then boiled in oil. Then please burn them alive
    and scatter their ashes to the four winds. If you need help, I am at the
    ready to lend a hand. I mean it. —Mr. John Mangrove

    SAYS WE ANSWER TO BIG MONEY
    I think your rotten rag is owned and run by the big money boys who support terrorism
    because they want to see this country go to hell so they can take
    it over. I bet you won’t print this.–Mr. K. Oldhook

    NIXES TERRORISM
    I’d rather see my babies snack on paint
    chips than become terrorists.–Mona Mauger

    PRESENT FOR EDITOR
    If I ever run into your editor he’s going to need a
    steak to rub on his eye after I get through with him. What kind of
    smart aleck thinks it’s clever to defend terrorism? —Mr. Peter Newground

    WHIP NEWSIES AND KIN
    You are a bunch of terrorist rats and you ought to be horse whipped and your
    families ought to be horse whipped and your newsboys ought to be horse
    whipped. Good G-d, I could say much much more, but I won’t.—Mr. Steve
    Leatheroot

    SHOESHINE LOGIC
    Terrorists “innocent until proven guilty?” This is just the sort of logic you might expect a negro
    shoeshine boy to be impressed by.–Mr. Walter Oilbean

    WANTS MORE SNIPERS
    If only I still had my sniper’s rifle
    and lived in the Wild West, where instant justice by strong-minded
    vigilantes was still legal, you can bet your bottom dollar I would put
    one right smack between the eyes of any terrorist what so much as said boo
    to me.–Mr. Frank Deerplum

    WANTS IMMIGRANTS SENT BACK
    Why do they let in immigrants?
    I am an AMERICAN that has insurance and pays his taxes. I don’t
    buy codeine cough syrup at twenty different drug stores in Moochburg
    then turn around and sell the bottles in Old Town for 20 bucks a pop.
    As I’m sure you’re aware most foreigners are not here legally, are
    paid under the table, don’t pay taxes, and are draining our economy by
    using up our schools, hospitals, housing, and abusing systems that
    were set up to help the tax paying legal citizens. This country is
    falling apart because of these people. NO MORE IMMIGRANTS!
    –Mr. G. McClellan

    5. ATTENTION: PEOPLE I DO NOT KNOW. PLEASE TAKE A MINUTE TO REPEAT THE PRAYER POSTED BELOW AND SEND IT TO AT LEAST FIFTY PEOPLE.

    Dear God, I pray my worries will be small
    I pray for parking when I go to the mall.
    I pray for Dick Clark as he lowers the ball.
    I pray that this year the Cubs will take it all.
    I pray for the baby in her little crib
    I hope that I’m never caught out in a fib.
    I hope that I’m given a clean lobster bib.
    I hope that Bosso likes the cut of my jib.
    For all this I pray. In every way.
    God, please send positive energies today.

    WARNING:  THE LAST PERSON WHO FAILED TO DO SO WAS REINCARNATED AS A FIELD MOUSE AND EATEN IN A LIGHT BATTER BY FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND.

    6. THE MAGNIFICENT TRAVESTY
    Purson was desolate. They were after him. A cold host of Gorgon smiles, headed by his Aunt Busybody Lucifer, from whom no enlightenment upon the riffraff ever deigned to shine.

    He knew that it would distress him to be marred and be tried and found insufficiently vehement, in the final big dimly lit life-after-death. “Oh! Only suppose I were younger.” he thought, “And that my time had not yet come.”

    Suddenly Adderson Adderton, his superior, loomed near–and behind him lay twenty-thousand of the inhabitants of cold hell.
    Adderton’s chief assistant, the demon Hungry Johnson, interrupted. Icicles clung in his mouth. The low light of a fiendish laugh cast a quick cold glow over Major’s frozen mane. Johnson silently pointed at a glum devil named Gorge Satan.

    Gorge Satan was standing at the edge of a precipice and thinking of dropping to the bottom. “But just what then would I do?” he exclaimed.

    His sin? He had laughed at God.

    Purson burst upon his thoughts and shouted after him from a steep white outlying step.

    “Little spirit, quite dim, stay away from the hard run!”

    Following an infinitely extended interval, that evening Purson was received by his Aunt Hell, whom mortals hear in the sound of winter wind on resounding windows.

    “I have noticed,” said she, “that some sob upon hearing that howl.”

    Purson was immured in adolescent declensions of the word “sob” and did not hear the rest of what she had to say.

    Aunt Hell at last cuffed him on the head and Purson stood, inconsequential, drawing his conclusion regarding his own fate from the disposition of hell’s anteroom, full of the lurching splendid throat-rumbling roar of cold fire. Where he had little to think about except the dead.

    There was no great physical presence in this country. That he knew. Only the violet blue indifference of the cold fire that never burned.

    Purson’s mind wandered back to the life he had once led on earth.

    Purson’s town affairs.

    Purson’s way of saying out loud that which most folks never dared to even think.

    His betrothed, squeaking out her unknown worries from eight a.m. to forty-five o’clock.

    It’s wretched, thought Purson, to watch two weep, when one of them is pledged to be yours and the other one is you.

    You can put on a nice front but begin to fall apart once you see such a serenade.

    He remembered entirely his wishing to follow his betrothed into heaven and ultimately knowing he could not. “What’s fact, does not suit me,” said he. “Go and let it be known to one and all that it amounts to too much, to stir the souls of those who have already died.”

    Especially when you yourself are already dead.

    Time stands miraculously still in hell. “My sole regret,” thought Purson, “Is that when I lived I did not live constantly. And now–everything is constant, and nobody lives.”

    A bald cowboy devil on a pale horse looked down upon him, took off his black cowboy hat and slowly shook his white mane for infinite sad seconds.

    In life Purson had had an audience with no older head and so dead he remained only in want.

    And then though only after an eternity he began to hear the dismayingly buoyant voice of a crowd of demons calling for his scalp.

    His final thought, before he died again and again?

    “If only I could have back that time I had before! I should choose acceleration, not regret!”

    7.THE META METAMORPHOSIS
    1
    One day a loathesome insect woke up in a crawlspace behind an
    old-fashioned gas range located on the fourth floor of a slum
    apartment and found himself transformed into a neurasthenic
    Czechoslovakian Jew named Gregor Samsa.
    2
    Where do I want to go with with this? thought Gregor, whom some might
    have mistaken for the narrator of this tale, though they would be
    badly mistaken.
    3
    Certainly the single mother and her twelve-year old son who played
    inadvertant host to the naked, German-speaking, and very confused
    Gregor wanted no part of  him.
    4
    It was the dead of winter, however, and he was stark naked, and the
    mother did not have the heart to turn out the young and not unhandsome
    stranger.
    5
    Consequently, she borrowed some gaudy cast-off clothing from the pimp
    who lived downstairs.
    6
    This was a man for whom she sometimes turned freelance tricks when the
    welfare check was late and the Johns were streaming into his domicile
    too quickly for him to accomodate with his regular stable of foul,
    albeit foxy, whores.
    7
    You would surely like to know what happened next, but Gregor, which is
    not to say I myself, was having to make this up as he–or I–went
    along.
    8
    In that way this story is very much like a memory that never occurred.
    9
    Let us assume that a man with the intelligence of a cockroach–because
    he was, in fact, once a cockroach (or perhaps “dung beetle” is a more
    appropriate approximation) was compelled at first to speak with a
    strange gurgling sound.
    10
    Let us also assume, at least for the sake of story interest, that
    Gregor eventually grew able to make sounds that vaguely, at least,
    resembled human ones.
    11
    And now we introduce another character. The welfare worker.
    12
    She came around from time to time to check on the family, mother and son.
    13
    And on this occasion–conveniently, for the sake of our story–mere
    hours after Gregor first revealed himself–she wanted to know what the
    stange man was doing there anyway.
    14
    The mother was hard-pressed to give a satisfactory answer.
    15.
    The police were called and Gregor was taken to the local precinct
    station. The kindly patrolman offered him coffee and a doughnut. The
    taste of coffee was loathesome to him, though he eagerly devoured the
    doughnut, for it was slightly stale.
    16.
    Because he was able to give no satisfactory account of himself, Gregor
    was eventually confined in the county jail.
    17.
    Another character is now introduced–a psychiatrist.
    18.
    After three hours of questioning, the doctor of mind medicine was
    unable to coax any identifying information from the prisoner, and so
    about two weeks after Gregor Samsa first made his appearance, he was
    confined to an institution for the mentally insane.
    19.
    There he was dosed with chlorpromazine hydrochloride and subjected to
    electroshock. Thereafter, he languished for fifty years and,
    eventually, died.
    20.
    It is not the grandson of the twelve year old boy of whom earlier we
    spoke who is writing this story. Nor the mother. Certainly not the
    pimp, or any of his whores, all of whom were barely literate at best.
    21.
    As for the psychiatrist–he drew up a few case notes regarding the
    curious case of the amnesiac who was discovered in the cold-water
    tenement dwelling of a incorrigible floozie.
    22.
    Upon his death, alas, those notes were destroyed.
    23.
    Therefore, by rights, this story should never have been written.
    24.
    This “Gregor Samsa” of whom we speak exists merely as a sort of
    spectacle, fit only to be pointed at. Surely nobody with any sense
    could find very much that is noteworthy about the tale of an admirable
    beetle transformed into a useless man.
    25.
    More properly, this “Gregor Samsa” –is he not merely a memory that
    never occurred? Yes. Therefore, let us conclude, then, with a quote by
    the immortal Bard most appropriate to this circumstance.
    26
    “O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all
    the uses of this world!”

    8. LIBERAL CONSERVATIVES AND CONSERVATIVE LIBERALS
    Liberal Conservatives believe any wild conspiracy theory they hear and
    adduce it as proof that “they” control everything. Conservative
    Liberals parrot every liberal piety unquestioningly, all the while
    buffing their ‘question authority’ buttons to a high sheen.

    9. VOX POPULI
    I’ve not been long upon the world
    To know of all the wonders of the earth
    But I must offer up a question
    Consider it for what it’s worth.
    The voice of those who sell us of our birthright
    The thoughtless words of men of ill-repute;
    Why do we fail to put them in their places?
    Why no philosophies to offer them refute?
    Why do we cheer the cant of blowhards
    And thus entice the bastards on?
    This question begs but one precise solution:
    We have no thoughts our own to lean upon.

    10. OUR DEITIES
    We create our Deities around our wounds.

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THE INFORMATION #887 MAY 6, 2016

THE INFORMATION #887

MAY 6, 2016

“She falls.You jump.”–Carl Jung, upon being asked by James Joyce to explain the difference between Joyce’s mind versus that of his schizophrenic daughter
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SIXTY-NINE: KINGDOM COME
Count Victor Justin paused briefly in his speechifying to ruminate over a tall and frosty mug of reeb. After he ordered drinks all around–yet again–he resumed his tale of the notorious grifter with the alias of ‘Jake Leaming’. 
 
“I’m not trying to say that Leaming was totally without his bright spots. Every man has a few. The born fool around women is good with horses. A Sunday-school Parson may be no good at shoeing horses, but slings a topping Bible talk. And a policeman might be no good at collaring crooks–but a dab hand at ruling the roost at home. Mind the old saying: ‘Every time it rains when the sun is shining, a policeman is beating his wife.’ 
 
“Listen, Yobs: Like I said, old Jake Leaming could spiel all day on certain subjects with the best of them. And being a hypochondriac with a death-wish, he could talk all day about why he hated doctors–all doctors–even the good ones, if there were any, which he sincerely doubted. 
 
“Whenever the topic came up–and it often did, for he would always find a way to come around to it–whenever the topic came up, then first off, he would raise the Holy Ned about how all the doctors and all the lawyers were in league with each other, only even the nerviest lawyer would only charge you half the money you had, while your average Doctor respected no law, man-made or otherwise, and would always charge the full freight whether he managed to cure you or not. 
 
“Another reason he favored lawyers over doctors is that lawyers always listened, and would always take advantage of the main chance on your behalf, while quack doctors had their heads stuffed with so much medical foolishness that they could scarcely remember to tie their own shoelaces. Also, you never heard of any trial lawyer worth his salt calling in another trial lawyer to help him out. That’s usually because he wants as much of the money as he could grab between two of his greedy bloated fists. But Doctors, for all their good old book-larnin’, were constantly calling in “specialists”–usually, doddering old fossils whose idea of current medicine ended in 1880 or thereabouts. The old fools were still cupping, and using leeches, some of them. Senile dinosaurs, the lot of them, these specialists. Not the twinkly-eyed General Practitioner you always read about–no! That’s just Doctor’s propaganda. All of them, right down to the last man, are a bunch of cold-hearted fiends who cackle with glee every time a sick man walks through their door. They’re like Spirit Mediums–fraud is a part of their basic framework. ‘A good horse Doctor has twenty times more know-how than one of these quack M.D.s’, said Leaming. 
 
“And–get this–the more you pay them, the more they string you along. If they sense you are on your uppers or haven’t got the dosh, they’ll make quick work of you, sure. And the next stop for you is the boneyard. But once they scent money they’ll dose you up with all kinds of drugs designed to keep you alive, but barely. When you tell them your symptoms haven’t abated but only gotten worse, they’ll tell you that it’s the killing pace of modern  life, and you’re not getting any younger; in fact, you’re getting older by the minute, and you’re slowing down, and it’s not to be helped, and you’ll just have to endure it, and maybe if you went on a diet and got more exercise you’d feel better, and you mustn’t neglect fresh air and wholesome sleep, and Say, maybe you’d be better off at a Sanitarium out in the piney woods. Cost? Oh, don’t let money worry you. Cost? Oh, nothing’s more important than your health. Cost? About ten dollars a day. 
 
Ten dollars a day! Seventy dollars a week! How’s that for compassion? Picture your average wretch–working like a dray horse and managing, through might and main, to pay the mortgage on his own house. Until one day he’s too sick to go to work, what with money worries and all the rest of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that life throws his way. What does the grinning ghoul of a Doctor recommend? Rehabilitation at a Sanitarium! At ten dollars a day! Three times his salary! And, even then, once the money stops flowing, he gets the shaft. 
 
“And God alone can’t help you if you happen to be indigent, with no friends or relatives, and you end up in a public charity ward. Ho ho ho–then it’s the Black Bottle for you, with the skull and the crossbones, me hearty. You see, some doctors in the hospitals like to have interesting cases, so they can experiment on their patients. If you don’t have some kind of interesting disease, so they can operate on you and show all the younger doctors and interns something new and different; rather, if, instead, you’re just one of those chronically sick people with an uninteresting ailment and little if any hope of recovery–why, then, me Bucko, they’ll give ye a loving sup from the good old black bottle–and instead of occupying a much-needed hospital bed, you’ll be on your way to the morgue, and very soon. Yes, that Black Bottle has killed more indigents than the plague, I’ll warrant. Tell me–if there isn’t death in the black bottle, then why does if have a skull and crossbones? So you can pretend to be a pirate? Haw! You’re courtin’ death, sure, by going to one of them charity hospitals. Sick people with all kinds of contagious diseases go there; if you’re unlucky enough to end up in one, unless you’re young and strong, then there’s practically no hope for you.  
 
“Yes, that’s the medical profession for you–a bunch of greedy money-hustlers who would put your average grifter to shame. As a matter of fact, I suspect these learned doctors to have more than just a drop of larceny in their souls. 
 
“And, if, as it so happens, they don’t give you a stern lecture and warn you to mend your ways lest you dig your own grave with a knife and fork, then, why, they’re so accomodating and good-natured–as long as the money flows, of course–that they become your pal–your good pal, only they’ll never tell you what’s wrong; only they’ll keep ministering ‘The Dope’ to you until you’re swimming up to your eyeballs in it. 
 
“Either way, with doctors you just can’t win.”

1*SALUTATION

LONNIE MACK
2*REFERENCE
ALSO SEE:
I’M GOING TO KEEP HUGGING MY DOG. HERE’S WHY.
https://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/2016/04/28/dogsandhugs/xPdZLn2MHFcXXdmoxtpv8J/story.html3*HUMOR
PLAYGROUND RHYMES
I hate Bosco, it’s full of DDT
My mommy put it in my milk to try to poison me
But I fooled mommy and put it in her tea
And now there’s no more mommy
To try to poison me!

[To the tune of Snake Charmer Music]
In the land of Mars,
Where the ladies smoke cigars,
Every puff they take
Is enough to kill a snake.
When the snakes are dead,
They put diamonds in their heads.
When the diamonds break,
It is 1968.”

4*NOVELTY
‘Beachy glow,’ false lashes,’ ‘hair down’: College cheerleader advice unleashes outrage
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/early-lead/wp/2016/04/28/beachy-glow-false-lashes-hair-down-college-cheerleader-advice-unleashes-outrage/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
Milo Yiannopoulos Tells Students Feminism Is ‘Cancer,’ Causes Protester to Absolutely Lose It
http://www.theblaze.com/stories/2016/04/26/milo-yiannopoulos-tells-students-feminism-is-cancer-causes-protester-to-absolutely-lose-it/

6* DAILY UTILITY

FIND A SONG IN A MOVIE
sweetsoundtrack.com/
7*CARTOON

PROPOSED MUSICAL VERSION OF “IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE”

Please Mr. Gower, Mr. Gower please
Please Mr. Gower, Mr. Gower please
You’re hurtin’ my sore ear,
And fillin’ me with fear…
ALSO INCLUDES:
Merry Christmas…In Jail!
Zuzu’s Petals
A Warped, Frustrated Old Man
Where’s That Money, You Silly Stupid Old Fool? 
Hard Drinks For Men Who Want to Get Drunk Fast
That’s a Lie! Harry Bailey Went to War!
Youth (Is Wasted on the Wrong People)
Nothing But a Scurvy Little Spider!

Pottersville, Pottersville (A Real Swingin’ Town)

8*PRESCRIPTION
9*RUMOR PATROL
Conspirators simultaneously gunning for JFK:

Texas Oilmen
Friends of LBJ
Cubans
Cuban Exiles
The KGB
CIA
FBI
The Mob
The Radical Right

Mossad (why the hell not?)

10* LAGNIAPPE

THE FBI SAW “IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE.”  THEY DIDN’T LIKE IT.
In 1947, the FBI issued a memo noting the film as a potential “Communist infiltration of the motion picture industry,” citing its “rather obvious attempts to discredit bankers by casting Lionel Barrymore as a ‘Scrooge-type’ so that he would be the most hated man in the picture. This, according to these sources, is a common trick used by Communists.”

http://www.mnn.com/lifestyle/arts-culture/stories/6-things-you-probably-didnt-know-about-its-a-wonderful-life

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
My God: Jethro Tull’s ‘Aqualung’ really IS an album that you MUST hear before you die
http://dangerousminds.net/comments/my_god_jethro_tulls_aqualung_really_is_an_album_you_must_hear_before_you_di

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
AMAZING SPIDER-MAN: RENEW YOUR VOWS. ***
ARCHIE 1. WAID. ***
THE ART OF CHARLIE CHAN CHOCK CHYE. LIEW. ***1/2
BACCHUS VOLUME 1. OMNIBUS EDITION. ****1/2
BATMAN 8. SUPERHEAVY. ***1/2
BERNIE. RALL. ****
BLACK CANARY 1. KICKING AND SCREAMING. **
CAN I GO NOW? KELLOW. ***1/2
CAPTAIN MIDNIGHT 1. ON THE RUN. **1/2
THE COMIC BOOK STORY OF BEER. HENNESSEY & SMITH. ****
CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE. SUTHERLAND. ***1/2
DEADPOOL 1. ***
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY 5. THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS. ***1/2
THE HIGH COST OF DYING. CRANDALL.
THE IMITATION GAME: ALAN TURING DECODED. OTTOVIANI. & PURVIS. ****
MESSENGHER: THE LEGEND OF JOAN OF ARC. LEE & HART. ***
NEMO: RIVER OF GHOSTS. MOORE & O’NEILL. ****
THE NOBODY. LEMIRE. ***1/2
ON THE TRAIL OF THE ASSASSINS. GARRISON. ****
THE OTHER SIDE. AARON & STEWART. ****1/2
PATIENCE. CLOWES. ****1/2
SCALPED 1-7. AARON. ****1/2
SUPERMAN 1. BEFORE TRUTH. ***
WARZONES: CIVIL WAR. ***1/2
X-MEN: THE AGE OF APOCALYPSE: DAWN. **1/2
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

THE INFORMATION #886 APRIL 29, 2016

THE INFORMATION #886
APRIL 29, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I: For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die.–Oscar Wilde
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SIXTY-EIGHT: KINGDOM COME
 
“Survival at all costs. Any animal knows that,” said Count Justin Victor. “Yet some poor culls are so beat down that they ain’t even in the running at the day to day job of bare subsistence. They stumble like a blind man from one mishap to the next. They’re the ones you see trying to beat the crooked faro game–and, take it from me, they’re all crooked–or make a whore into a respectable Hausfrau. It seems as though they may be omnicompetent in one particular field, yet a total failure once they stray too far from what they know. Take, for instance, Jake Leaming. A whiz at counting cards and cheating at all manner of card games. He was known all over the United States and Mexico, too. He took so many gambling establishments for a ride that they had his mug shot posted in every manager’s office, ’til he couldn’t get no action anywhere. Do you think he’d find a new racket? No–he just went solo and got involved in “friendly games of cards” with some pretty rough characters. A few beatings later, you’d think he’d give up his spendthrift ways, go neck-deep into a sure thing, and bring off one big score so he could retire. Maybe invest in some California real estate. Always a sure thing, because they ain’t making any more. Well, you’d think wrong. Because for all his cleverness, he must have had a death wish or something. He was always travelling with that disguise kit of his, which he carried in a big keister, and when he was on the run he loved nothing better than to go to the carny down south, open up a mitt camp, and tweak the rubes. 
 
“‘The lines in your hand tell me that you will suffer misfortune on a grand scale. Your wife will leave you and your dog will up and die–or maybe the other way around. But I have a magical Mojo Root charm that will help to protect you from all disaster. Only twenty dollars, and cheap at one-tenth the price.’ Haww….
 
“Worse than that, he was always indulging in monkey business with the Town Clowns. Playing them for suckers. And him a nance. He was playing with fire, kidding along some of those mean Southern Sheriffs with a foolproof line of palaver. 
 
“‘The cards say that you are destined for a promotion and will father a brood of twelve healthy children.’ This, to some broke-down Sheriff’s Deputy making eight dollars a week, and glad of it. 
 
“But say–get this! Soon enough he got tired of jerking the rubes around. I swear that at one time he was desperate for ooftish, so he does what every respectable fakeloo artist does and moves to a new city–in this case, New Orleans–and commences to start in on a sure-fire flim-flam. He stands on a street corner impersonating a blind Catholic priest and starts in to denouncing Mark Twain, the Godless Heathen. It was a brilliant bit of theatrical entertainment–worthy of Sam Clemens his own self. The Police dast not roust him. Tell me: what God-fearing officer of the law wants to be seen arresting a priest? And yet, for all his ‘blindness,’ he sure did have a pretty accurate reach whenever a bottle was passed around.  
 
“Well, the Pinkertons developed a long-time beef with him. You really don’t want to get on their bad side. Don’t you know they’re practically an arm of the federal gummint? Don’t you know that they maintain whole drawers full of mug shots and fingerprint files? Don’t you think they keep tabs on every grifter from a shell game man on up? You can bet even odds that they had a complete write-up on our boy Jake Leaming, along with a list of all his aliases, including Jack Lemon, Jimmy Lennon, James Lyman, Jackie Limone, and more. He had some kind of fixation with the initials “J.L.” Hell, I don’t know if Jake Leaming was his real name or not. That’s the trouble with these geniuses–they tend to be sick in the head. Just chock full of conceited little quirks which make it practically impossible for them to pass for normal, God-fearing Americans. Those kinds of grifters are the ones the Pinkertons go after the hardest. Don’t ask me why, but they’re drilled in how to track down kooks and troublemakers. Maybe it’s something in the water. Go figure.
 
“Yes, old Jake Leaming must have had a real death wish. He drank to excess, which tends to make a man sloppy. He dressed like a dude–usually all in white, which made him stand out like a clapped-up dick in a nunnery. And unlike nearly any other grifter I ever knew, other than myself, he had a motor-mouth that wouldn’t stop running. Ask him what time it was, and before you know it, he’s telling you how a watch is made. 
 
“Let me tell you how dumb this Leaming was. While he was down South, he was on his uppers, and was staying at a hotel that was a real dump. Wouldn’t you know it? He had to up and get caught in bed with a hotel bellboy, and the Hotel Dick barged in during the middle of it. Now, Leaming was no dummy–he offered the Hotel Sneak a substantial bribe to forget the whole thing, but for some reason that House Dick had a beef against all sunflowers and the whole cult of beauty and so he went and run him in. A powerful hate it must have been, for him to turn down a century note. The coppers and the Pinkertons all knew he had a reputation as a degenerate gambler as well as a mail fraudster. Well, they didn’t have the Mann Act back then, or they probably would have got him on that. But instead they called in the Elbow Squad, the case went to court, and they sent our Lavender Boy up the Salt River to my old stomping grounds–the Eastern State Penitentiary, where he could while away the hours making little ones out of big ones, or whatever it is they do there nowadays. A fella hears stories. I haven’t been keeping in touch with him lately. I sure hope he landed on his feet.” 

1*SALUTATION
TURTLES

YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN
 
TURTLES
CHICKEN LITTLE WAS RIGHT

2*REFERENCE
FOR THE POOR, GEOGRAPHY MATTERS

3*HUMOR
THE BONZO DOO DAH DOG BAND
THE INTRO AND THE OUTRO
RIP THE GRIND GOAT
170,000 SEARCHABLE PHOTOS OF THE GREAT DEPRESSION
TWELVE THINGS ABOUT BEING A WOMAN THAT WOMEN WON’T TELL YOU
WORST ALBUM COVERS
 
ALSO SEE:
AWKWARD CHRISTIAN MUSIC ALBUM COVERS

8*PRESCRIPTION

NEOLIBERALISM
SHALL WE KILL EVERY CAT IN THE U.S.?
BRECHT-WEILL
BARBARA SONG
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

PRINCE
POP LIFE
https://youtu.be/pMnm9nyCdB0

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
845. BUMPER STICKERS OF PEOPLE YOU SHOULD AVOID

My Car is Jealous of Your Shiny Car
My Other Spacecraft is the Starship Enterprise
Caution: Recombinant DNA on Board
Honk If You’re A Migrating Goose
This Machine Kills Fascists
I Sleep On a Kryptonite Pillow
Ask Me About My Particle Accelerator
L. Ron Hubbard Is My Co-Pilot
I Brake for Biological Mishaps
Caution: Nuclear Reactor on Board
People Say I’m Aggressive, But My Gun Says Otherwise
I Love My Dog Which Used to Be a Cat
Easy Does It But Man Could I Use a Drink
I Brake For Twisted Circus Dwarves
Ask Me About My Tarantula
Stop Senseless Violence–Bring Back Sensible Violence
My Son Is An Honor Student At The State Prison Farm
Christ Is Crucified and Yet You Laugh
I Love Absinthe
Why You No Be My Friend, Esse?
Methamphetamine Is My Co-Pilot
Jesus is Coming Back Soon and Then We’ll All Be Destroyed

THE INFORMATION #885 APRIL 22, 2016

THE INFORMATION #885
APRIL 22, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor. –Sholom Aleichem

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SIXTY-SEVEN: KINGDOM COME
Count Victor Justin repeated himself.
 
“‘People like us never make it.’

“Truer words were never spoke. That’s as sure a formula for failure as I ever heard. People who think that way end up living that way, and there’s nothing you can do to help them, save roll your eyes, because once a sucker gets a fixed idea in his head, it’s going to stay there come hell or water high.

“I have found it to be remarkably true: What you settle for is what you are.

“People don’t make ‘mistakes’. That’s because they’re basically just animals who will go where their instincts lead them. There’s nothing accidental about the things that people do, and the carny stunts they try to pull on their peers.

“The young make their reputation in bedeviling the old. They practically consider it their duty. ‘Twas ever thus. I recall one time going to the carny as a young man, when I had already been put wise by an old hand at the last carny I worked. I thought it would be a cute stunt to cheat at all the gaffed games and win big.

“So I would put a coin down on the Over and Under and move it ‘just so’ when the results came up, to show I had bet correctly even if I hadn’t. I would hide a pea under my fingernail to fool the man who was running the old shell game. There are endless ways to make trouble at a Carny if you’re with it and for it.

“But the canny old Cazarnies knew I wasn’t a greenie or a lot louse the second they saw me. It was their grift sense.They had a good chuckle at their own expense, then they told me that they were working, and strongly implied that unless I wanted a job of work that I should blow, unless I wanted something bad to happen to me…’like a thief in the night’. Y’see, they were tolerant of me…up to a point. Because I was their own kind. Always remember–the older you get, the more you want to cling to your own kind. It’s practically a law. Old folks are fearful of novelties and brash newcomers–and for good reason. Who needs some snot-nose come to upset the apple-cart after you spent half a lifetime arranging the fruit pyramid Just So? Somewhere along the way to the boneyard the oldsters lose their sense of humor, along with their tolerance for the unusual.

“Nobody loves a stingy hustler–except maybe another stingy hustler. Maybe that’s why grifters are so profligate with their ooftish, when they got it. Champagne and strawberries at midnight, and hang the consequences. It’s a nice way to live, if you can stand the gaff.

“Most people are like dogs, y’know. They go snuffing down a rutted road full of horse apples in the springtime, and are proud of the leash. In the summer they sweat and piss, and in the fall they foolishly strut about. In the winter the leash has become a burden, but they’re proud of it all the same.

“Just consider that the mass of men are just dogs who can walk upright, and you won’t go too far wrong.

“You want to get someone to agree with you? Simply nod your head yes as you talk to them. Works every time. You want to get someone to pay attention to you? Wave your arms around. In his face, if possible. Better still–clasp his shoulder in a manly grip. If it’s a bairn, grab his chops between your fists and squeeze–tight, but not too tight.

“You can motivate people better if you dole out small lashings of praise at regular intervals, rather than shower them with compliments at every conceivable moment. Like a charm, it works.

“But in order to influence people in the ways you want them to go, you must first master your own mood. Let no trace of annoyance or elation cross your fevered brow.

“And you must never give people the impression that you consider yourself somehow ‘above’ them, or ‘better’ than them, even though you are. You have to be, if you are going to sway them to your will. There are people who are too dumb too be mesmerized, and people who are too smart. Those are the parties you wish to avoid.

“Here’s something else. The young can be hot-tempered, but their inflamed passions soon cool. The old tend to be utterly and remorselessly vindictive. They don’t care about not making new enemies. To them, the whole would outside of their own constricted existence is a new kind of enemy. And old people largely get their jollies about being the proverbial dog in the manger. In other words, ‘If I can’t have it, no one can’. ‘Where were all these free luxuries the young folk are wallowing in back when I was young? It’s all a dung-heap of foolishness.’ For all the old, the fact that they can no longer work the world to their advantage means that the whole world is broken. ‘Where is the world I knew?’ Dead–like you are going to be, and very soon. Eskimos have the right idea. Say–I don’t think of myself as ‘old’–I just think of myself as a young man with plenty of experience. I’m always game to have new experiences. Just so long as I don’t have to put on a monkey suit no more. I’ve had it up to here with the starched-collar set.

“What is war, and the war of life, after all, but a means by which the old make the young into old men like themselves? ‘That which doesn’t kill me makes me stranger’. Haww…!

“Take away everything a rich man has–his friends, his fancy duds, his swell home, and his reputation–and I guarantee that within thirty days he’ll either be dead a mackerel, or he’ll be eating out of garbage cans. That’s the way we’re built. Survival at all costs. It’s a natural instinct. Like the two skunks, In and Out. Usually, Out was in and In was out. But one day, In was In. How could you tell? ‘In stinked.’ 


1*SALUTATION
SCRUFFY THE CAT
BIG FAT MONKEY’S HAT
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qINEBwwCt2I&nohtml5=False

2*REFERENCE
26 charts and maps that show the world is getting much, much better
http://www.vox.com/2014/11/24/7272929/charts-thankful

3*HUMOR
COOPER’S YANKEE, ITALIAN AND HEBREW DIALECT READINGS AND RECITATIONS
THE CLIQUE
SUPERMAN

Crazy Eddie: The Rise—and Fall—of the Electronics Store’s Insanely Successful Criminal Enterprise

VINTAGE CHARMING MEN’S FASHION
PAT BOONE VS. SUPERMAN
8*PRESCRIPTION
 
SEE ALSO:
The 10 Most Awesomely Insane Jack Chick Mini-Comics
9*RUMOR PATROL
LOU REED: MONSTER

Steppenwolf

Monster 
(Live at Randall’ Island festival, NY 1970)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-vGxe1eMmQ&feature=share

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
HANNA-BARBERA UPDATED
“Yabba-Dabba-Don’t.”

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
844. ROBERT CRUMB

ROBERT CRUMB HATES YOU

R. Crumb Doesn’t Hate “You.” R. Crumb Hates The New York Observer

ROBERT CRUMB IS DEAD–TO ME
http://observer.com/2016/04/robert-crumb-is-dead/

Jacques Hyzagi: ‘Elle on Earth’ journalist discusses quest to dismantle the media

HOW TO ALIENATE EVERYONE IN YOUR INDUSTRY

The Jacques Hyzagi Insult Generator

THE INFORMATION #884 APRIL 15, 2016

THE INFORMATION #884
APRIL 15, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others. –Jonathan Swift 

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SIXTY-SIX: KINGDOM COME

“Speaking of shutting the door,” said Count Victor Justin, “I think that temperance pests should mind their own business. And what about Suffragettes? They demand equal rights, yet they also insist on being treated like Ladies. That there’s a case of having your cake and eating it too. That kind of thinking comes from having a sheltered childhood, and no real notion of how the world really works. A mind addicted to platitudes is no guarantee of any journey to a safe passage. Far from it! In self-defense, these wooly-minded frauds band together and seek to oppress people who are actually better than them, all things considered. I never saw a drunk who forced his attentions on any Salvation Army tambourine-shaker; nor any pimp who solicited a bicycle-riding, bloomer-wearing Lucy Stone. All these people have skeletons in their own closets; of that you can be sure. What about the old lady with a sneaking fondness for Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, which is loaded to the gills with both morphine and alcohol? What about the Suffragette who, all her life, had men defer to her–then all of a sudden, she emerges from her girlish larval state as a shrieking hag making unreasonable demands on all the hapless menfolk? 
 
“You won’t find this kind of nonsense in Blowtown. People are realistic here,” said Count Victor Justin, addressing the drunks assembled at the bar of Tipsy Smith’s Seven Stars Saloon, “and we always know who our friends are. It’s not like life among the rich and well-off, where alliances are shifty. No, it’s a matter of survival for a poor person to always know who will watch out for him. One individual the slum-dweller has cause to be leery of is the Policeman on the beat. He means them no good. That is why they stand in solidarity agin him. But it ill behooves a denizen of the lower depths to glorify their villains and yet at the same time complain when one of them gets killed by said lawmen. I’m no pal of the copper, but I say that it’s a fact that you can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell all the kiddies that the badman, the b’hoy, and the thug are all great big men who ought to be respected, yet at the same time, when the police kill an armed robber, you say that the filth has done done him wrong. That ain’t logical. No one gets in this racket expecting to come out alive. 
 
“That’s why slum-dwellers stay where they are. They never learned to stop and think. Not a one of them. They live in the eternal today. Not a thought in their head, and certainly not a thought for tomorrow. And all their yesterdays are forgotten, unless, perchance, it is to remember some Yellof that done them dirt. Once you live in that filth of the ghetto, and have breathed its foul contagion your whole life, you never lose your taste for it. You come to find out that clean food tastes funny; that fresh air lacks character, and that clean water tastes of nothing. Much better to eat slop, and to breathe soot, and to swill rotgut booze. And yet slum-dwellers are surprisingly persnickety when it comes to the truth. If you tell them that one of their cherished beliefs passed down through the generations just isn’t so, they will simply refuse to believe you.
 
“One thing the slums are good for is extinguishing all hope for something better. People there are so beaten down that they don’t want you to succeed. Try telling people you plan to be an artist of some kind, and here is what they’ll generally say: ‘Maybe you should devote your time and energy to doing something useful,’ or ‘Art is all very well and good but there’s no money in it,’ or ‘Art is a load of codswallop. Haven’t you learned yet that it’s all a stupid game?’  They’ll say, ‘I dunno. Sounds pretty half-baked to me, Kiddo. And I’ve been around; I know things.’ They’ll also say, ‘Why can’t you be like the rest of the world and keep your big mouth shut?’ 
 
“No, the world got no use for a dreamer–unless he’s asleep–like everybody else.
 
“They’ll do their damndest to discourage you from being somebody. They are like scorpions in a bottle.They want to keep you down, down, down with them.  I’m talking about all the naysayers. 
 
The people who say, ‘That’s a terrible idea.’  
 
Or ‘Somebody else probably already thought of that.’ 
 
Or ‘Who’s going to pay you to do something like that?’ 
 
‘You might as well fling your future down a cistern.’ 
 
‘I will laugh my ass off when you fail.’
 
‘ Verily, what do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun? Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.’  
 
‘You’ll never make enough to eat if you insist on being an artist. Anyway, you’ll have to have some kind of job, just in case. Anyway,  what makes you so special? You never struck me as someone who was very smart.’
 
‘That’s so typical of you. Always trying to attract attention to yourself. ‘ 
 
‘You might as well hold a loaded pistol to your head.’ 
 
‘Why don’t you get a real job?’ 
 
‘You never know. Things seldom work out like they’re planned.’ 
 
‘What qualifies you to be an artist?’ 
 
‘Don’t you know that life is mostly hard work?’ 
 
‘I know someone who tried to do what you’re doing. He got sick and died a horrible death.’ 
 
‘I don’t think you have any talent at all, and I’m afraid that you’re going to be dirt poor for the rest of your life just because of some mistaken notion that you’re somehow better than everybody else.’ 
 
‘On your tombstone instead of your name it’s going to read He Thought He Was An Artist.’ 
 
‘When it comes right down to it, life is just ashes and mud, so why bother yourself? I’m telling you this for your own good.’ 
 
‘Forget it. People like us never make it. Forget your stupid art and pay attention to important things.’ 
 
And then there’s the kicker:  ‘I certainly hope you don’t think, after all your grandiose schemes fail to materialize, that you can come crawling back home with your tail between your legs.’
 

1*SALUTATION

APRIL FOOL’S DAY HOAXES
 
SEE ALSO:
TEN STORIES THAT LOOK LIKE PRANKS BUT AREN’T
MAPS TO AVOID PRETENTIOUS PEOPLE
2*REFERENCE
SEVEN TELL-TALE SIGNS OF A CON ARTIST
 
SEE ALSO:
PRIMARY LESSONS IN PROPAGANDA

3*HUMOR

PAPERBACK PARADISE
JAMES MASON FOR THUNDERBIRD WINE
ALSO SEE:

Library Offers Homeless People Mental Health Services, And It’s Working

ALSO SEE:
HOW THE PUBLIC LIBRARY BECAME HEARTBREAK HOTEL
SCIENTOLOGY AND SATANISM
Waterlogue captures the essence of your photos in brilliant, liquid color. 
THE WHIZ KIDZ
BY SKIP WILLIAMSON
THE CASE OF THE COPULA OVERDOSE
NUKE YOUR TOWN

Jerry Lewis Dressing Room Interview 1 August 1995 Part 1 of 4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fgEd29Re6E

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

DC’S “HANNA-BARBERA BEYOND”
Ugh.